Tiny Vessels
by xXBeckyFoo
Summary: That lie is pushed aside to repeat another one for the third time  that night as she straddles him; as she's touching,squeezing, kissing him in a  way that should make him feel like heaven's in the way she moves with him. But  it really doesn't. ONESHOT.


**Tiny Vessels **

**Oneshot.**

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><p>You don't really know why it happened, why you allowed yourself to take things to that extent; why you let them get that far. There was a warning in your brain, there was a feeling in your chest, but you ignored them both without a second look back and went along with it.<p>

Now this is how the story went for you.

_This is the moment that you know_

_That you told her that you loved her, but you don't_

_You touch her skin and then you think_

_That she is beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me_

_Yeah, she is beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me_

It's been three years, your surrogate-brother tells you. Well, more like leers at you, laughing mockingly, walking down the staircase of the boys dormitory as he finds you sitting in the empty common room. "Must feel longer, though, right?" He asks you as he points his wand towards the highest window of Gryffindor tower and lets the summer sun seep in. "Can't remember when was the last time someone mention one of you without bringing up the other."

You stay quiet, not really wanting to say anything.

"Poor bastard," he mutters, pretending like you're not in the room and he hasn't just practically shouted it out. "So young, so tied down."

You roll your eyes, feeling them change inside your sockets as you stare at the empty fireplace of the common room. "It's not like you know much about it, right, James?" You retaliate, catching him off guard as he sunk to the floor to look underneath one of the armchairs. "Any time anyone associates you with someone, it's always that one party you snogged Lorcan Scamander, remember?"

He glares at you, Ginny Weasley's eyes narrowing at you with that same spark of anger as he smacks his hand on the floor and slithers it underneath the armchair; still giving you that look. "First of all," he is instantly angered, "I had loads of Firewhiskey in my system, alright. And secondly, it was a bloody game of spin the flask—and I'm no bloody chicken!"

"That's what you're calling it now, are you?" You laugh at him despite the thoughts in your head. "Because I'm pretty sure Scamander is hopelessly devoted to you now. Hear he tells the Ravenclaw girls you're a great kisser."

"It was a bloody game, I say!" He throws whatever it is he found underneath the armchair at you and you barely manage to dodge it as it flies past your head.

You stand up, still chuckling as you fix your school robes and head towards the portrait hole, but not without giving him one more smirk.

"Whatever, Lupin!" He shouts after you. "People will forget it, but you'll still be screwed until forever!"

The humor wipes away from your face as he can no longer see you, and his words linger in your head a little too long.

_What are you doing? _You ask yourself as you push the portrait hole open, trying to climb yourself out of that common room. Your chest aches a little, and you know that it's panic starting to rise inside of you. Because you know that everything you are doing, everything you _have _been doing, you did it just because. Because everyone wanted you to, and because you never spoke up.

You let it happen.

"Teddy!" Before you can even place your feet stably on the ground, you are attacked my arms that wrap themselves around your neck. You stumble a step back, but you managed to hold yourself and the extra weight on you up.

At first leap of attack you really couldn't see who it was, but the blonde hair and the smell of a mixture of fruits invade your sight and smell, and then you know who's hugging you so tightly and dominantly.

"Good morning," you say softly as you pat her back, waiting until she's done suffocating you with her hold.

She pulls away and then your eyes catch sight of the world's entire beauty put into one person, into _her_. Her blue eyes, like crystal or ocean waves, blink at you, her eyelashes so thick and making her eyes more enchanting as she pulls on a sweet smile on her pink lips. "I got your owl already, Ted, and I can't wait!" She practically squeals and you force yourself not to flinch. "I was going to give you your gift now, but I suppose it could wait until the night. Is that alright?"

You nod. "Of course."

Her smile stretches and you can see the butterflies flying inside her, making her jumpy and so excited. "Three years today, Ted," she sighs contently as she reaches for your hand. "And I love you more every day."

Something sinks inside your chest, because honestly what the hell is wrong with you? But you don't voice it aloud, nope, you never do. You just smile back at her, using some of your genetic gift to make your eyes sparkle like your floating in the stars and everything she's feeling is living inside you as well. "I love you too," you tell her, letting her pull you in whatever direction she chooses.

_I wanted to believe in all the words that I was speaking_

_As we moved together in the dark_

_And all the friends that I was telling_

_And all the playful misspellings_

_And every bite I gave you left a mark_

You have to be the world's biggest git, you just have to. You know it, you feel it in your bones every time you take a giant breath of air. It is all around you, mocking you. It flashes in your face like sparks spelling out, '_GIT, GIT, GIT_' in every turn you make, every step you take. But you suppose you deserve it, so you let the sparks grace and burn your face without even a flinch.

This was _your _fault after all, and you know that too as you sit at the edge of a mattress, semi-naked in a room of the Leaky Cauldron. The air in the room is sort of thick with fog created by a cigarette between your fingers that's burning to the end as you leave it unattended for a few seconds. It dark too, but you can see the rest of your clothing tossed by an armchair at the other end of the room, probably gathering the smell of sweat and sex in the room; even the faintest hint of vanilla in the fog of smoke.

You breathe in through your nostrils, taking a second to let that tainted mixture of oxygen pass through you, and then you turn to the nightstand next to the mattress. An owl's there, watching you with those big yellow eyes of his, looking partially annoyed with the time you seem to be wasting.

"Alright," you say to it, sticking the cigarette in the middle of your lips and reaching over to the nightstand to pick up the quill next to a blank square of parchment, "I'm going." And then you start scribbling, trying to come up with words composed into sentences that are supposed to mean something; something magical and satisfactory.

But even as you're trying to write, feeling under pressure by that blasted bird's eyes, you know that every single letter forms a lie. And then you start drifting back to the question of your teenage life: _what the hell is wrong with you?_

You've been asking yourself that since you were thirteen, maybe earlier than that, and now you're eighteen and still without an answer. _Come on now_, you tell yourself so many times, _focus and you'll be fine._

But you won't. You know you won't.

You inhale on the cigarette a little, the ashes starting to splatter on your chest as you continue to write.

_Molly, _

_You couldn't have sent an owl any later, could you? So bloody rude, you wench…._

You pause, the quill making a spluttered dot on the parchment as the door of the restroom opens and out walks the most beautiful girl on the face of the planet. She comes out, shaking her wet blonde hair, running a towel through it, exiting out in her matching bra and panties and you know, somewhere inside your hormonal body that you should feel like the luckiest bloke alive—but you don't.

You really, really don't.

"An owl?" Victoire knits her brows as she stops at the edge of the bed. "Who're you writing to so late, Ted?"

You look away from her, breathing in the nicotine of the cigarette between your lips again and focusing back on the parchment. "Molly," you tell her in a flat voice. "She wanted to know how our holiday is going."

She laughs, and it's an excited laugh that sends chills up your spine, chills of nervousness and resentment. "Wait until she knows," her voice is filled with the same excitement that lived in her giggle, "she's going to die."

You don't smile, you continue to inhale that cigarette and write a little more as an excuse not to reply to her.

…_.Everything's going according to plan. Victoire's never been so happy, you should see her, Molls. This holiday really was the best idea we could've thought of. You know, romantic rubbish and all that. It's nice to spend time as a couple away from everyone and from school. Just her and I._

_We've been having a proper time, enjoying ourselves. We still don't know much about what we're choosing to do once we get back, but I suppose Vic will enroll in the Healer program. You know she's always wanted to save lives and all. But all we know, in case you're wondering, is that will be together and that we love each other just as always….._

You stop writing as your edge of the mattress sinks in; a warm, bare leg now suddenly touching yours.

"Our early return is going to be such a surprise for them," she's speaking again, much more calmly, "we've been gone for two months, after all."

You still don't look up, you instead take out the cigarette from your mouth and crush it next to the unfinished letter.

She puts an even warmer hand on your bare thigh, "but what we have to tell them is going to be so much more surprising." And on one of her fingers you can see a sparkling ring, the diamond somehow enchanted to shine whenever it bloody pleases.

You swallow, but you force yourself to look up. You would find courage to look away from the ring, away from the promise you said you would complete soon enough when you placed it on her finger. "…Yeah," you breathe, looking at her blue eyes glittering with happiness that yours should hold too, "they will be."

She smiles beautifully at you and she leans into you with a sparkle of her own gleaming on her eyes, and she captures your cigarette-tainted lips in a heavy kiss.

The lying words in the unfinished letter are forgotten, that lie pushed aside to make and repeat another one for the third time that night as she straddles you; as she touching you, squeezing you, kissing you in a way that should make you feel like heaven was in that way she moved with you.

But you don't, you never do.

_As tiny vessels oozed into your neck_

_And formed the bruises_

_That you said you didn't want to fade_

_But they did, and so did I that day_

She's lying next to you, sleeping so soundlessly, so peacefully.

Her blonde hair is scattered all over her pillow, glowing from the sunlight entering through her bedroom window; making it look like a sort of halo as her pale skin glows also in the light.

You're in an upright position next to her, on her bed, looking at that ring you put on her finger three months ago. You do that every time you spend the night in her house, after you hold her, after you kiss her, after you have sex with her, after you lay there full awake as she's off in her own little dream world.

And as the sun is rising higher every second, you think to yourself so randomly, so appropriately almost, that you're an orphan—that you've never met your parents. Not once. Not even in a dream, not even in a fragment of a flashback when you were born and before they died. You have nothing of them, _nothing_.

But everyone else has something, just not you.

The Weasleys have something, Hermione has something, Harry has something, your grandmother has something— but you don't. All these people knew your parents; knew how they were like. They have stories of times with them, of moments that made them laugh, think, cry, worry, and get angry. They have all of that and more, so much more. And because they do, because their memories of your parents are clear to them, they expect so much out of you because of who they were.

You've always known that—and _that's _what's wrong with you.

Your mother was loyal, charming, hysterical, aloof, clumsy, brave, loving, caring, and her own person. (As you were told so many times by your grandmother.) And your father, according to Harry, he was an exceptional man. He was brave, intelligent, fierce, human, noble, gentle, isolated, loving, and very, very loyal.

And that's what they expect from you as you grew. They expected you to be like them, a perfect mixture. They assumed things, they always assumed and you went along with it. How to disappoint them, how to show them that Remus and Tonks did not live inside you?

How were you supposed to live up to those expectations if you didn't know them? How can you be the prodigal son to the newly-wed Lupin couple after they died if you had nothing to copy from?

Victoire stirs in her slumber, turns her back on you, her glowing face hiding from you, and you're thankful for it as she distracts you from your thoughts.

But it was in that moment, in that moment that you felt so _relieved _that you were not going to be the first thing she saw if her eyes came to life, you knew that you were never going to be Teddy Lupin because you had no _fucking _idea who that was.

Because that moment of relief, that was the truest you've ever been to yourself.

Swallowing once, you carefully slither out of her sheets. You're breathing is stable, it's low as you grab your shirt from the floor; quickly sliding on your shoes.

And that's when you do it, because you can't take it, because you can't keep up this— whatever it is. You give her another look, nothing crossing you, and you leave with a _crack _that doesn't wake her, you know it in your gut.

But at one point she will wake, she will not mind so much that you're not laying next to her, but that will fade away and mix with the painful memory of yesterday's perfect date and confusion and heartbreak when she realizes that you're gone; and that she wont find you anymore.

No one will.

_All I see are dark gray clouds _

_In the distance, moving closer with every hour_

_So when you'd ask, "Is something wrong?"_

_I'd think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it , we can't talk about it now."_

It doesn't come to a surprise to you when you're standing on that lonely hill, swaying loosely on your feet from draining more than half of the bottle of Firewhiskey in your hand and smoking cigarettes that alter your senses, when she appears next to you.

"You left," she says to you in a hard tone, not looking at you as she keeps her eyes focused on the darkening sky far and away from where you two stand. "You left without a word."

You shrug, tossing back the bottle into your mouth and letting that warm and strong liquid go past your lips; tainting your system even more. "Very well spotted," you slur, "that was a month ago, clever girl."

You don't need to turn to know she's frowning at the direction of the gray clouds. "You left us, your family—you left _her_," and now you turn, and she's already looking at you with glaring and angered brown eyes."….You left me."

Shaking your head at her, you laugh so nastily.

"She's hurting, Lupin, don't you realize that?"

And again, you shake your head, but this time with a shrug to accompany it. "I don't want her," you're still slurring, anger eating and mixing with the alcohol in your veins, "and I don't want them."

Her brown eyes are staring at you, big and so innocent. "…Don't you want me?" She whispers to you, those doe-like eyes glazing over with tears that should pull on your heartstrings but don't.

You don't feel compassion when you're drunk—hell, you don't feel _anything _at all when you're sober either. It goes hand in hand, everything that you lack.

"I'd ask you how you found me," you speak to her after drinking another gulp of Firewhiskey, "but I really don't care."

"Ted, come on—"

You interrupt her, "go home, Lily." You let your eyes look into hers, nothing passing through you as her expression breaks and shatters and you know her hearts looking just the same right about now.

Lily tightens her lips, and you can see she's fighting to hold her tears in. "…Please come back, Ted. _Please_."

You say nothing, you just sway in your spot.

"If…If you don't want to do it for Victoire, then do it for me," she's still pleading, her red hair swaying backwards in a curtain of dark scarlet, "….because I love you too."

A puff of what's supposed to be a chuckle passes through your mouth, and you're shaking your head again. "I don't love," you speak as clearly as you can muster without sounding like an idiot drunk—after all, these are your final words, "not her and not you."

Tears are now present, running down her cheeks.

You turn away, something inside of you—the tiniest shred of guilt for that little girl that grew up adoring you, that little girl that should've seen you like a brother but somehow gave you love you didn't need, didn't want, didn't deserve—hurt to see her cry. You look at the clouds, at the night that's coming and you say to the heartbreaking silence the girl fell into, "leave, Lily. And when you do….forget where you found me."

_So one last touch and then you'll go_

_And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more_

_But it was vile, and it was cheap_

_And you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me_

_Yeah, you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me_

She's getting dressed at the opposite side of your room as you're searching for a muggle-lighter to ignite the end of your cigarette.

When you finally find one in the ruffle of mess that's scattered on your nightstand, you glance up and look at her tying up her hair in a bun as she searches for her boots. She's got long black hair, glittering green eyes that pop and contrast from the intensity of her hair and the paleness of her skin. She's something that comes out of those girly muggle-magazines that you stumble upon sometimes on the stands as you walk the streets; something so beautiful and exquisite with that body of hers.

She huffs as she's completely dressed now, "I'm late," she's staring at you and you give her a nod, acting like you know what the hell she's talking about, "but, anyway, I'll talk to you later?"

"Erm," for Merlin, God, or whoever's fucking sake you can't remember her name, "sure," so you nod again instead.

An odd silence pierces the air of your room and you clear your throat as she keeps staring at you, and now you're hoping she'll hurry up and grab her purse and leave.

But she doesn't, of course she doesn't. "…Alright, then," and that's what she says as she lingers for five seconds that she could've spent walking towards the door and leaving your flat earlier.

You nod again, but this time you try to smile. You honestly _try _as the muggle girl looks at you with hope in her emerald eyes, a flicker of faith crossing her features as she nods back, returns the gorgeous smile, and heads towards the door with her purse now in her hands. Not even registering for a second that you don't own a telephone and that you don't have her number.

But that doesn't faze you, you just shrug it away as you stand up from your bed somewhere in a faraway flat that no one knows that you're in. You grab the bottle of alcohol from the nightstand, unscrew the top and head towards the window overlooking the city.

You start wondering many things again, just like always. The same _'what the hell is wrong with you_' question, the same flickers of regret of breaking hearts, of breaking the mold of who people expected, hoped, and waited for you to be as you drink that alcohol without a care or a feeling in the world.

Through that, however, you find another flash of something pass through you as you stare at the big world out there. And that's that maybe, _just maybe_, you'll stop running until the day you find out who Teddy Lupin really is; and that's he is capable of love by his own methods and no one else's.

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><p><strong>AN: Oh, yeah. I went there. I bleeping went there! <strong>

**Lol. Anyway! I have no clue what inspired me to write this, but who cares. It gave me a chance to write in a different style that I usually do, and let me give Teddy another characteristic that contrasts with the ones I'm always giving him in my stories. Because, I dunno, I think that somehow he did have a lot to live up to because of Remus and Tonks. Not in a bad way, but you know. (...Whatever, let me be! Lol.)**

**Hope you like. If not, then...OUCH. (;**


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